


Sálufélagi

by Savasta_101



Category: Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25896373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savasta_101/pseuds/Savasta_101
Summary: Icelandic lore said the álfhól (elves) gifted them to those who were worthy in heart. And Sigrit thanks the elves often - with little spice cakes or bottles of nettle wine - for her soul mark. It is a golden lion, roaring proudly on her shoulder, its eyes the colour of amber whiskey, its fur the soft yellow of sand-stone.
Relationships: Alexander Lemtov/Kevin Swain, Sigrit Ericksdóttir & Alexander Lemtov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	Sálufélagi

Soul marks were a fiddly piece of magic.

Icelandic lore said the álfhól (elves) gifted them to those who were worthy in heart. And Sigrit thanks the elves often - with little spice cakes or bottles of nettle wine - for her soul mark. It is a golden lion, roaring proudly on her shoulder, its eyes the colour of amber whiskey, its fur the soft yellow of sand-stone. 

For many years, when words would not pass Sigrit’s throat, she worried that her soulmate might have a blank space in lieu of words she could not speak. And then Abba and Lars gifted her with music. Speech came later, more slowly. Still, sometimes, the words catch in her throat when she is anxious, like a fish flopping on a hook out its element - but never when she sings.

In Húsavík it is unusual to have a soulmate from outside the town, let alone from outside Iceland. The soul marks - usually covered by yellow raincoats or thick knit jumpers - when exposed are a sea of greens and blues and Icelandic cursive, of sea monsters and whales or shimmering blue tuna. Somehow, Sigrit knows her soulmate is from far, far away, perhaps the Savannah, where lions are free to roam.

Lars does not have a soul mark. He says it is because Eurovision is his soulmate, the other half to fill his life, but later Sigrit wonders if it is because Lars is too selfish to truly give to another person. She wonders if Lars’ soulmate is himself.

Some nights, as much as she loves teaching at the primary school and the beauty of her home-land, she wishes to venture out its borders on some perilous adventure to hunt down the lion’s owner. But tickets are expensive, and even Reyjkavik is four long bus rides away. Sigrit contents herself to trace her soul mark in the dark - its glimmering outline imprinted on her memory - and to trust that the elves will soon bring her soul mate to her as she’d wished.

A bloodied limb drops out the sky, and Sigrit swears the maw of the lion opens, as if it’s hungry, or perhaps… grinning? Fire Saga are going to Eurovision.

Far away Alexander Lemtov scratches at his soul mark irritably.

Her first impression is that those leather pants are extremely tight, and his hair very blond. But then Sigrit sees the smile lines carved into his cheeks and feels the kindness in place of competition (though she still maintains with the objective appreciation of an artist that Alexander’s butt looks fantastic in those leather pants).

“Fire Saga.” He greets them, but his smile is not cruelly mocking - as she’d expect from the sharp lines of his mouth. Instead, his whole face is softened by a glowing smile, like a lamp lighting up his features in its warm, buttery glow.

“Alexander Lemtov.’ gushes Sigrit, ignoring Lars’ pout at her side. He kisses the milky skin of the back of her hand, as is customary for those who haven’t met their Marked, and everything stills – 

Sigrit is filled with sparkling joy, like Brennivín has been corked over and exploded inside her chest, and she is distantly aware of Alexander taking off his trousers, to reveal the small elf curled almost cheekily in the crevice of his thigh.  
\- “I knew I loved Icelandic lore for a reason.” He tells her many months later. –

Sigrit tears down the sleeve of her dress to reveal her lion, or lev, she supposes. It suits Alexander: the resplendent gold like the gilding of the domed roofs in Moscow, the wild gaze, and, Sigrit blushes cherry pink, a ‘Lion of Love’.

She leaves after the disaster of a rehearsal, still too drunk on her discovery to be anything but joyous and promises to make it up to Lars the next morning, as Alexander sweeps her into his car.  
Photo bulbs flash behind them, leaving a silvery after-image imprinted on Sigrit’s eyelids.  
“I am big in Russia.” he explains simply.  
“It must be tiring.” she broaches softly.  
Alexander shrugs. “I bring pride to my country.”  
Sigrit wishes she could say the same but is fairly sure she and Lars are currently the dam feeding a river of Iceland’s humiliation.  
“Vodka?” offers Alexander.  
“Please.” says Sigrit gratefully.

She wakes to a braid twining around her hair like a crown, gold flowers strewn in, clothed in a silky white night-gown. Sigrid twirls, the braid flying behind her, and feeling a bit like a princess in this Scottish manor of cool stone and creeping ivy. Alexander watches her, his eyes gleaming.

She wonders, slightly, at the marble statues of naked men, and wonders more at the linger of a palm, fingers spread flat like a lily pad on water, on Kevin Swain’s chest.  
He laughs wildly when Sigrit shares her suspicions. Her soul mark feels like frost on her skin. They do not talk for some days.

Sigrit has never felt more alone - Lars filled with icy indignation that she is no longer so pre-occupied with him, and her much-dreamed for lion so distant. She writes a song about her hometown for herself, a balm to her loneliness, and no-one else.

And then - everything goes up in flames. 

There is an abstract water colour of bruising wrapped around her neck, where the scarf tightened like a noose and dragged her across the stage, and her mascara is running in inky streams down her cheeks, dress wafting like tattered tissue paper.

Alexander gives her his velvety jacket to cover her exposed mark, and Sigrit clutches it tightly, until her fingers are peeled off one by one and clasped in between Alexander’s warm palms. (He slips his phone away, but not before she sees texts to Belarus and Lithuania and Slovakia, Moldova and Romania and Ukraine - all the countries where his father has business ties).

Sigrit hugs him tightly in thanks when Iceland are given ‘inexplicable’ votes. (She also whispers a ‘thank you’ to the elves).

Lars returns, dramatically, and Sigrit sings her song, the lion on her shoulder warming her like the sun with Alexander’s pride and giving her the courage to reach for the Speorg note.

After the competition, she brings Alexander home with her. He wonders at the “quaint little villages” and joins her in giving thanks to the elves - peljmeni, that the personal chef he insisted on bringing along had made. She tells him the wonderful news of Lars, who woke up to a soul mark suddenly spread across his chest, a shiny blue pufferfish, because he had learnt to love people other than himself.

And then Sigrit comes with him to Russia, because someone as shining as Alexander could never be happy in a little sea-side town. She lets the press photograph them, marks exposed, to poison the last, lingering whispers of Alexander’s… preferences.

One day, in the Autumn - when ruby-red leaves are falling from trees, and they’re sipping smoky coffee in Moscow, Sigrit sighs at Alexander - happy to have a friend but still so lonely, and slides the plane ticket to Greece across the table because some-times loving people means being able to say good-bye. And because some-times soulmates aren’t the people you lay with at night, but they are exactly who you needed. 

When the plane lands, and they step out into sunshine, the salt-smell of sea present even in the airport, Kevin Swain is waiting, looking ridiculously stylish for someone in flip-flops. Alexander turns to Sigrit hesitantly, and she smiles softly, fingers tracing the braid Alexander had woven on the plane-ride. “Go.” she tells him. (Alexander, of course tells her all about it over breakfast the next day).


End file.
